


Happens Sweet, Happily

by WillowRoseBrook



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Maybe a little angst, Mental Health Issues, Napping, Reading, Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 04:14:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19899655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillowRoseBrook/pseuds/WillowRoseBrook
Summary: Sometimes, when he thinks no one is watching, Crowley is also soft.--A series of noncontinuous one shots concerning Soft Crowley.Title from the Hozier song "Wasteland, Baby!"





	1. Chapter 1

Angels and Demons, strictly speaking, do not need to sleep. By the same measure, they don’t need to eat, drink, breathe, or do a litany of other more primitive human activities. 

But Aziraphale and Crowley have been on earth long enough that they’ve picked up habits. They both like a good drink every now and then, and Azirapahale loves his food. Crowley loves to sleep.

Aziraphale knows that Crowley’s sleeping habits can be self destructive, though they’ve never talked about it. The demon had slept through an entire century, something Aziraphale has always wondered if was his fault. (Nonsense, he thinks. Our Holy Water argument couldn’t have meant that much to him.) When confronted with things he’d rather not think about, Crowley’s first instinct is to sleep.

But for the most part, the demon takes pleasure in it. When Aziraphale gets back to the bookshop one afternoon, paper parcel full of scones from that _f_ _antastic_ bake shop just down the way, he smiles. 

Crowley is asleep on his couch, laying in the full sun that’s streaming through the glass of the front window. He’s curled into his own body like a snake sunning itself, Azirapahale thinks. Old habits die hard. 

He makes his way through the shop as quietly as possible so as not to disturb Crowley, who’s sleeping so wonderfully, beautifully in the sun. Still, Crowley rolls over as Aziraphale sets the paper bag down.

“S’what’s going on?” he mumbles groggily, eyes still closed against the streaming sunlight. He’s not wearing his glasses, too uncomfortable to sleep in, perhaps. Aziraphale likes to think it’s because Crowley is comfortable enough around him to be himself. 

“Nothing, my dear. You go back to sleep and when you wake up I’ll have some tea ready.” 

When they aren’t saving the world, Aziriphale revels, they live a charmed life.

“Hnnsss,” Crowley agrees, turning so his face is in the couch pillow instead of in the sun that streaks down the rest of his body like liquid gold. Aziraphale prepares tea—the old fashioned way. He believes no miracles should be used when it comes to food. One must have slipped by though, because his demon is still asleep on the couch, and having him here is nothing short of a heaven sent miracle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading the only thing I've ever willingly written in the present tense, as I drifted off into my own nap.


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley did not read books. It would go against his image to be seen with  _ The Canterbury Tales  _ or  _ The Hunchback of Notre Dame _ . Even more demonic-minded books like  _ Dante’s Inferno _ were off limits. Demons were not literary intellectuals. (Most weren’t any type of intellectual at all. What Crowley  _ was _ an intellectual in was a different story). 

But one night, when he swaggered into Aziriphale’s shop holding a bottle of scotch by its neck, Aziriphale was nowhere to be found. The shop seemed unharmed, so Crowley didn’t truly panic.

“Aziriphale,” he called impishly, poking his head down the stacks and checking under the occasional book, as if the angel could be hiding there. He eventually found him in his back room, pouring over an old book. The angel still didn’t notice him standing in the doorway, because he was muttering aloud to himself. Reading. 

Something came over Crowley, because he set the bottle of scotch down silently and came to stand next to Aziriphale. The angel startled.

“Oh! I’m sorry, I was—“

“Don’t stop on my account,” the demon interrupted, hands in his pockets. 

“I—“

“Keep reading,” Crowley insisted.

If you had asked Crowley, he would have approximated that Aziriphale had read every book in the world by now. But somehow he’d found a new one—he always seemed to—,a copy of something assumed lost in the library of Alexandria, a subject Crowley knew never to bring up unless he wanted 72 hours of varied hysterics. (Sometimes Crowley thought that Aziraphale was trying to grow his own Library of Alexandria.)

It was an academic text, not a story, so perhaps that was why Crowley was willing to listen. It wasn’t soft, with pretty poetry or heart-warming morals. It merely spoke of history. And Crowley listened.

Aziriphale snuck glances at him every few lines at first. Crowley had a wild smile on his face. Perhaps he was merely playing a trick, Aziriphale momentarily speculated. But eventually he was reabsorbed in his work. They sat like that for three hours.

“I didn’t know you were interested in historical mathematicians,” Aziraphale said as he finally closed the book.

“I’m not,” Crowley said, and Aziriphale didn’t argue. They drank the scotch and talked the night away. But it happened again. 

The next time it was a book of Hellenic mythology, and Crowley started interjecting comments about the validity and lack thereof of certain stories. He and Aziriphale got into a heated argument about the origins of Hecate, but eventually settled down enough to finish the book. This time Crowley didn’t deny his interest, but Aziraphale didn’t ask. 

By the third time, Aziriphale was catching on. He knew Crowley would be over that afternoon, so he selected a book of ancient Roman poetry: Horace. Something he could read in its original Latin, which might make up for the “poetry” part so contrary to a demon’s image. He didn’t start reading until he heard Crowley enter the shop. 

“Latin,” the demon commented, but didn’t say anything else. It had been a while since he’d heard it spoken. He settled into the chair next to Aziriphale, legs crossed. He’d seen this book before; he knew Aziriphale had already read it. But he didn’t comment. He just listened. Now Aziriphale glanced at him not because of the strangeness of the interaction, but to gauge Crowley’s reactions. How did he feel about this line? That stanza?

“This poem is my favorite,” he dared to say. Crowley nodded silently, but not disinterestedly, as Aziraphale may have expected. 

“Not bad,” he said after listening, a smile playing its way across his lips. 

“That one,” Crowley said quietly, later as Aziraphale finished a different ode. It was bleak, Aziraphale thought, about forgetting hope. Aziraphale was unsure whether Crowley meant he liked it or didn’t, and he didn’t elaborate. Either way, the words made him feel something, and Aziraphale was proud. He stopped reading for a moment, and dared to truly look over at Crowley, who looked lost in his own thoughts.

“Crowley dear?” he managed. 

“Keep reading,” Crowley snapped.

The fourth time Aziriphale read to Crowley, they were on their way back from lunch downtown at a new noodle-themed cafe (Noodles were one of the few things Crowley would consistently eat). Crowley dropped himself on Aziriphale’s couch with his usual dramatic swagger. 

“I was thinking about doing some reading,” Aziraphale suggested, trying to sound nonchalant despite his racing heartbeat. Crowley made a noncommittal grunt. It wasn’t a no.

Aziriphale hurried off to the back stack, where he’d hidden three books just for this occasion. He sat down on the couch beside Crowley.

“I...I can’t quite decide,” he lied. “Could you help me pick one?”

Cowley studied him for a moment and then gestured to  _ The Importance of Being Earnest.  _ They read the whole thing in one sitting. About halfway through, Crowley shifted on the couch so that his hand was now brushing Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale tried not to let it distract him.

A month later, Aziraphale hadn’t seen Crowley in five days. A year ago, he wouldn’t have batted an eye, but it was the longest they’d been apart since the attempted Armageddon without prior discussion. By day three he was starting to worry. By day five, he was beside himself. He called Crowley twice a day to both of his phones, but Crowley never answered. Aziraphale left little messages anyway before slamming down the phone in embarrassment. 

It made sense that Crowley would want a little space, he told himself. He was a demon after all. But worry nagged in the back of his mind. After everything that they’d been through, he couldn’t help but imagine the worst. It was afternoon of day five when Aziraphale made up his mind to go to Crowley’s apartment. He was just locking the shop behind him when he heard Crowley’s voice. 

“Aziraphale,” he panted, and the Angel turned, startled. Crowley was half-jogging across the street towards the shop.

“Crowley? Where’s your Bentley?” he questioned, as if that was the main thing on his mind.

“I walked,” he said. “Let’s go inside, yeah?”

Aziraphale nodded and turned the key back the other way, waving Crowley into the shop before following him in and locking the door behind himself. The room was dark, and a little cold, he realized at Crowley’s small shiver. Aziraphale had never paid much mind to earthly temperatures, but the demon seemed to retain some of his reptilian characteristics even in human form. With a small miracle, the shop was warmed a few degrees and the lamps were turned on. Crowley blinked at the light, and Aziraphale realized he didn’t have his sunglasses on.

“Crowley,” he began, voice soft. “What’s going on?” Crowley didn’t meet his eyes, but shrugged offhandedly. 

“Will you read to me?” he asked though, trying and failing to sound nonchalant. Aziraphale blinked stupidly, then nodded.

“Of course, dear. Any requests?”

Crowley shrugged again and Aziraphale hurried back into the stacks. He ran his fingers along book spines in a daze, worry churning in his stomach. What to read? What would Crowley like? There was suddenly more pressure than there had ever been before. Crowley wasn’t happy. He’d read the phone book if that was what would make him happy.

“Crowley?” he asked again from behind the shelf.

“Just, anything, angel.”

He pulled  _ The Hobbit _ from his collection of first editions and returned, expecting to find Crowley on the couch. He was still standing, staring off at the far wall. Aziraphale realized with a start how gaunt the demon looked. There were dark circles under his eyes and his always perfectly mussed clothes lay on him haphazardly.

“Crowley,” he breathed. The demon snapped back into reality.

“Read,” he growled, and Airaphale complied. 

He sat down on the couch as he opened the book carefully, his eyes darting up to Crowley through the first few pages. Crowley still wasn’t even facing him, but Aziraphale could see him start to relax as time went on. As he finished chapter one, the demon turned around to look towards him.

Aziraphale paused, and their eyes met for a moment. Crowley let out a tiny sigh that was almost a whimper, then came and sat down next to Aziraphale. He leaned back into the cushion with his arms spread and closed his eyes. Aziraphale started reading chapter two. He stayed that way through chapters three and four before Aziraphale closed the book. Crowley’s eyes peeked open.

“I’m going to put the kettle on,” Aziraphale said, not moving. “Would you like anything?”

“Uh.” He cleared his throat. “Coffee.”

Aziraphale stood up, but as he put the book down carefully where he had been sitting, Crowley blurted,

“Cocoa, actually.”

Aziraphale tried and failed to hide his surprise, but he nodded and made his way back to the kitchenette. He miracled both the water and milk to boiling. He didn’t want to leave Crowley waiting. 

Crowley accepted the cup of cocoa from him silently. Aziraphale took a few sips from his angel winged mug before sitting back down and reopening the book. 

“Chapter five,” he began. “Riddles in the Dark. W--” He stopped abruptly as Crowley leaned into him in the most awkward manner possible. His body was stiff, as if he was trying to remain cool and uncaring while also resting his head on the angel’s shoulder, like he was trying to convince them both that it was an accident.

“Oh, Crowley,” he huffed, making up his mind. He pushed the demon away from him and situated himself in the corner of the couch. Crowley stared at him with disoriented, unblinking eyes, before Aziraphale pulled Crowley back so that his head was resting in his lap.

“That’s better,” he said, and began reading again. His mind drifted as his voice read on, trying to understand Crowley’s heavy, compliant silence. Eventually his free hand wandered of its own accord and found its way to Crowley’s hair, idly stroking at his scalp as if he was a cat. He heard a quiet hum of pleasure from Crowley and glanced down. The demon had his eyes closed, but he looked far more relaxed than when he’d first sat down hours ago.

“Crowley,” he murmured. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. Just...keep reading,” came the quiet reply. And Aziraphale did.

By the time they’d officially moved in together six months later, when they’d talked about  _ it  _ and many other things, and realized each other's love, it became a nightly routine. They’d lay down in bed and Aziraphale would read to Crowley as he fell asleep, the angel’s fingers brushing through his hair. 

Crowley still did not read books. But he listened.


End file.
